


you are the only thing in life that i got right

by strawberryfinn



Category: Jonas Brothers, One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Venice Beach, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Shotgunning, Skateboarding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1972 in Venice Beach, and <i>so what</i> if Harry likes Niall. It's not a thing, really.</p><p>(Or the one where Niall, Harry, and Zayn equate skateboarding with life. There's some shotgunning, sex, a cat named after junk food, beautiful, carefree people, a Jonas Brother, and some pesky feelings).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the only thing in life that i got right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtymattress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymattress/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Venice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/587582) by [dirtymattress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymattress/pseuds/dirtymattress). 



> Hi!!! So thanks so much for reading. This is the first part of the Venice prequel. I want to thank dirtymattress for letting me write a sequel inspired by her piece because she and Venice are incredible. You should read it and let her know what you think :)
> 
> Also thank you to my betas irishnamesandpaperplanes, aguantare, and trespresh (you can find all of them on ao3). They’re all lovely and you should check out everything they’ve written because it’s all gold.
> 
> I tried to do Q's characters justice, so let me know what you thought! x

_1972, Venice Beach_

“You know, you're gonna kill yourself if you keep up with that.”

Zayn pulls his mouth off his cigarette, scowls at Harry as smoke furls out through his full lips. The sun's causing his dark eyelashes to paint shadows on his face, and Harry thinks momentarily to himself for the hundredth time in their friendship—since he hit puberty and learned to appreciate the human body—that Zayn's really, _really_ fucking beautiful, and like Harry would totally hook up with him if he hadn't known Zayn since for like _forever_ and if he wasn't _Zayn_ and if it wouldn't be so weird.

“Can we just go already?” Harry leans up against the concrete wall, foot propped up against the surface to keep his body stable. He nudges his skateboard forward with his sneaker—his green Vans are faded as hell, maybe he can guilt his mum into buying him some new ones because well... he doesn't want to think about _that_ right now—and huffs impatiently. 

“Already told you, Harry.” Zayn's voice is infuriatingly calm, and Harry narrows his eyes at this raven-haired, dark-skinned beautiful, _beautiful_ asshole that's also coincidentally his best friend. “We're waiting for Niall.”

Harry grumbles, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans.

“'s like weird I haven't met him yet with like... How close you guys are and everything,” he mumbles, threading his fingers through his tousled, curly hair. He pushes the chestnut brown, stubborn strands into sort of a ponytail so it's off his face.

Zayn hums absently, brings his cigarette to his mouth again, eyes wells of liquid amber as he studies Harry's profile. “Yeah, Niall and me go way back. He just moved back to Venice though, I told you Harry.”

“Better get his ass over here soon,” Harry grumbles, brow furrowing as he reaches for his skateboard. His fingers are just skittering against the edge of the skateboard (it's a tan board with striated pieces of wood splattered with a medley of black pictures—a ship, a star, a birdcage, anything that catches his eye, really, and that he feels like drawing on) when there's a whoop of delight and the sound of wheels against concrete.

Harry looks up and _holy fuck_ the boy's probably the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Long, unruly golden hair, candy pink lips, and blue, _blue_ eyes like the sky. He's wearing faded denim cut-offs and a raggedy grey tank top with thin straps that show off his shoulders and collarbones, and as the boy comes to a stop in front of them, Harry can see the constellation of freckles decorating his shoulders.

“Z- _Nasty!_ ” hoots the blonde, slipping off his board and surging forward to circle his toned arms around Zayn's neck. “Long time no see, brah! You good-looking bastard, still got it, huh?”

Zayn gives the boy a disgruntled look and makes a noise of protest from the vice-like hold the boy's got on him, and an even louder noise when the boy playfully licks his ear, but Harry notices the way the corners of Zayn's mouth are quirking up. “Don't call me that, you idiot. I told you, it's Z.”

“Whatever you say, Zaynie,” the boy laughs, pressing a sloppy, wet kiss to the underside of Zayn's jaw. Zayn manages to pry the boy's arms off from around his neck and glowers at the blonde as he rubs his jaw, which is dotted with stubble. The boy laughs and bumps his hips against Zayn's.

“Ni, this is Harry. Harry, Ni,” Zayn gestures, as the boy turns to look at Harry.

Christ, the boy is even more beautiful up close. Harry can see that his teeth are crooked and much in need of braces, but his smile is ridiculously bright, and his eyes are so, so blue, and Harry likes the way his cheeks are sunburnt, splotched pink and red.

“Niall,” the blonde says, thrusting a hand forward. “Good to meet you, brah.”

“Harry,” Harry repeats, taking the boy's hand, and he feels the callouses on Niall's palms. He feels something race up his own fingers, but tries to force himself to ignore it. “I've heard a lot about you.”

“All good stuff, I hope?” Niall grins, and it's blinding. “Don't trust this prick with anything.” He gestures to Zayn good-naturedly, and laughs again when Zayn gives him the middle finger.

“Yeah, yeah, it's been good stuff.” Harry decides he likes Niall. Niall laughs at most things, and it's a full, pleasant sound, ringing through the air, and the way he moves is graceful, and he'd have to be blind to not realize Niall's really, _really_ beautiful—maybe not in the refined, pretty, sculpted way that Zayn is with inky eyelashes and high cheekbones, but beautiful nonetheless.

Harry thinks this could be the start of something good.

____________________________________________________

By the time he gets back home, he's starving. His stomach is gnawing in on itself, growling in protest, and Harry realizes he hasn't eaten since noon, the adrenaline of skating with Zayn and Niall having taken over. It's almost eight at night, but the thing about Venice in the summer is that even at this time, the sunset is still streaking across the sky in oranges and pinks. Harry glances up at it, revels in its beauty a bit, before ducking into his house.

Right when he steps through the door, he knows things aren't good.

He can hear his mom and dad yelling at each other, and the sink is full of dirty dishes—glasses with amber liquid, plates with crusted cheese and burnt crumbs and ketchup.

“Your food's in the microwave.” Harry glances over to see his older sister, Gemma, propped on the couch. She's working on curling her long, sun-kissed brown hair outwards from her face, fixes her middle part as she stares in a hand mirror. She's donned some bright red lipstick and blue eyeshadow, a floral top and Daisy Dukes, and Harry's reminded of how she used to be his tomboy-ish, gangly older sister with zits and split ends and a flat chest, and Christ, things have changed.

“Thanks,” he answers, loping over to the microwave. “You going out tonight?”

“Yeah, Dougie's picking me up soon,” Gemma answers without looking at him. She's pursing her lips as she adjusts her hair with a frustrated noise. 

Harry peeks into the microwave, sees a plate of rather unappetizing looking spaghetti with limp noodles and chunky-looking sauce and dry meatballs. Upstairs, something breaks, and Gemma sighs. Harry's stomach twists.

“How long 've they been going at it?” Harry asks, closing the microwave. He reaches for his favorite denim jacket—it might be Zayn's because it smells like strong cologne and cigarettes and weed—that's hanging off the kitchen counter.

“Long enough,” Gemma answers quietly. She tugs at the edge of her flowy top, and studies her painted eyes in the hand mirror. Harry's talked to Dougie a few times, he seems like a good guy, seems like he treats Gemma right. Harry knows Gemma loves Dougie's long hair and the way he plays guitar and his car—of _course_ his car, but he hopes it's more than that.

“'K, well I'll seeya later.” Harry gives his sister an off-hand wave, and every muscle in his body is complaining, but he's not hungry and he just can't. Be _here_ anymore.

“Harry?” Gemma's voice is gentle, and Harry glances up, meeting her gaze. Gemma chews at her bottom lip nervously, but her eyes are soft. “Be careful, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry responds, and he tugs on his jacket, and he's off.

____________________________________________________

He's roused awake by a cop.

“Kid,” the policeman says, standing above him. The cop has aviators on, but he props them up on top of his head. He doesn't look mean or antagonizing—just looks more tired than anything, like he wishes he were off doing something grandiose rather than waking up kids with long, dirty hair who sleep on park benches because home doesn't seem like home. “Kid, you can't be sleeping here.”

Harry's back complains as he clambers off the bench. Some of the sand from the beach shuffles into the holes in his shoes as he walks and burns the bottoms of his feet, and he clutches his skateboard close to his chest. He has the painful realization that he's _starving_ —he should have eaten dinner the previous night—and he's thirsty, so he skateboards to the closest 7-11. Rifles through the pockets of his jeans and finds a few loose bills to buy a squished, pitiful sandwich and a glass bottle of Coca-Cola.

He settles himself on the ledge outside of the 7-11, facing the parking lot with his food in between his legs.

He's barely ripped the cellophane off the package when a body settles down next to his. He glances over to see Zayn out of the corner of his eye, and offers half of his sandwich to him, but Zayn shakes his head. Harry can see that Zayn's lips are in a taut line, a grimace, really, and a pang of sympathy runs through him when he realizes Zayn must have had a rough night with his dad. The new, purple bruise on the underside of Zayn's jaw only confirms that.

They sit in silence as Harry wolfs down his sandwich. The bread is hard and the lettuce is wilting and the ham is dry, but Harry hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. Zayn accepts some of Harry's cola, and pulls a joint from the pocket of his jacket.

Harry wants to ask about Niall, but he doesn't know if that's weird, so he doesn't say anything but just sits next to Zayn instead. Smokes with Zayn until he's so high he can't hear anything but a warm, comfortable buzzing in his ears, and thanks God it's summer.

____________________________________________________

Harry wakes up on Zayn's couch the next day, pulls on the raggedy tank top he wore the previous night and his denim jacket, and decides to bolt out of Zayn's house before Zayn's dad gets home. Harry's known Zayn for years—as long as he can remember, really—but he still doesn't know what Zayn's dad does for a living. Just knows that Mr. Malik is a terror when he stumbles in from a night out from the bar, and hell, Harry wishes he would stop hurting Zayn—because _really,_ Zayn does nothing to deserve it, and his winning all of these surfing and skating competitions is kind of the only source of income for their household, but there's nothing he can do to stop it if Zayn's not willing to leave except for make sure that he doesn't get in the way either.

“Z? You alive?” Harry calls, but the house is silent, signaling that Zayn's already left for the day.

His skateboard hits the pavement as he boards back out, eyes fixed resolutely on the road ahead. Harry's been to Zayn's parts often enough that he doesn't get scared or nevous, but he's still _conscious,_ of course, that Zayn doesn't live in the greatest neighborhood. He'd really have nothing to offer anyone who confronted him except for a few measly dollars he nicked from his dad's wallet in the pockets of his jeans, but he'd rather not even give those up because it could determine whether or not he'll eat today.

The sun's up in the sky, scorching down on his back by the time he reaches the beach, and Harry decides he wants a shake. 

His favorite place is a shack only locals know about—it's an unassuming, quite ugly building really, with paint chipping off the wooden boards that make it, but the Shake Shack is the best place to get smoothies and shakes—anyone who lives in Venice can tell you that.

Harry ducks in through the back of the store, cracks his knuckles and stretches out his arms before grabbing onto his board. He runs hands through his grimy hair—and shit, he might have to shower today at the beach or something—and leans up to the counter to give his order to Josh.

To his surprise, Josh isn't there, but instead there's a new kid with familiar blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes that make Harry's insides go weak and his knees turn into jelly.

“'Ey, Harry!” Niall cries happily, and Harry wonders how someone stuffed in a hideous orange apron, messy blonde hair spilling out of a orange baseball cap can be happy. But there's a dimple denting his cheek, and there's a splotch of freckles across the bridge of Niall's nose that shouldn't be endearing or attractive, but it is, and _really_ , it's not Harry's fault that all he can think of is how Niall's crooked teeth might feel on his dick. “Good to see ya!”

“Where's Josh?” Harry asks stupidly, because he's used to Josh with his thick arms and friendly smile and his earrings making his drinks, and instead there's a bright-eyed blonde kid who laughs at everything.

“He works on Thursday now!” Niall says happily. “I just started—this is my third day. What can I getcha?”

“Um. Vanilla,” Harry manages, and Niall glows at him with that mega-watt smile and turns to make his drink. Harry ambles over to one of the high-legged stools in the Shake Shack near the window, which gives a good, clear view of the beach. It's hot today for sure—the sand looks dazzling and glittery, and the ocean is a deep turquoise it only gets some days—and Harry's just rationalizing out that he might try to catch some waves right now when there's commotion from behind the counter.

“God _dammit_ Niall!” comes a loud exclamation, and Harry whirls around in his swivel stool to see Niall standing bewilderedly with white clumped in his hair and splashed across his face.

“Sorry, Ed!” Niall guffaws, milk dripping down his cheeks and off his chin, and Harry can't help but shake his head in disbelief. “Think I forgot to put the lid on or somethin'.”

“You _think?_ ” asks Ed—Harry's seen him about a few times; a squishy, gingery guy with loads of tattoos who seems pretty easygoing and harmless, really. “Just... clean up, Niall.” He shakes his head disbelievingly, but Harry can see the side of his lips tilting upwards. Niall seems to have that effect on people.

Niall salutes briskly, and then dissolves into laughter again as he starts wiping down the counters, Ed rolling his eyes at the blonde's antics. Harry notes the wiryness of Niall's arms, the taut muscles under his uniform polo, and turns abruptly away before he can think much more of how Niall might look naked in his bed. Shit, Niall's beautiful, really _fucking_ beautiful, and Harry isn't ashamed to admit it.

He turns to face the view of the beach again, getting caught up in beautiful people with long, sun-bleached hair and tanned, brown skin when a body slides into the stool next to him and a shake is shoved in front of his nose.

“Cheers,” Niall beams, and he's holding his own plastic cup of thick milkshake. His face has been wiped clean of milkshake, if the places where his face are tinged pink are any indication. “I made too much,” _no, you exploded your last attempt,_ Harry thinks, “so my manager said I could have the rest!” He eyes the drink like it's gold, and Harry thinks that if Niall were a dog, he'd be salivating a huge puddle all over the floor. “It's time for my break anyways—you don't mind if I sit with ya, do ya bra?” 

“Fuck, of course not.” Harry shakes his head, and Niall smiles. Nudges Harry's knee with his own under the table, and takes off his cap. Runs his fingers through his golden hair, all the way up to the dark roots and practically inhales the milkshake like he's never eaten in his life.

“You see Zayn today?” Niall clears his throat after drinking an impressive amount of milkshake in one go. Harry's a bit concerned, to be quite honest.

Harry shakes his head. “Haven't seen him today but slept over at his place last night. Saw him yesterday.”

“Was he,” Niall asks carefully. “Is he okay?”

Harry considers the question. Zayn had been bruised, but it wasn't the worst Harry had ever seen him so he nods a bit reluctantly. “I think he'll be alright.”

Niall sighs heavily. “Hope this tournament works out well for him, y'know. He deserves it more than anyone.”

Harry agrees. There's a skateboarding competition coming up—the winner gets a cash prize, and Christ, if anybody could use it, it'd be Zayn. It's for that reason that Harry didn't even contemplate entering—his situation at home is kind of fucked up, but it's not in the way that Zayn's is. He'll get by fine—Zayn on the other hand...

“You're gonna go out next week then?” Niall asks amiably. “To help Z scope out the competition?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Guess so.”

He went last year when Zayn entered for the first time. They'd watched wide-eyed as the rich kids in Venice with professional training showed off their flips and loops, but Zayn had gotten second in the end, beating out a bunch of the richer kids with his raw talent. 

“You've got some shake on your face,” Niall says abruptly, gesturing to his own cheek.

Harry brushes at his face self-consciously, but Niall shakes his head.

“Where-” Harry starts, but Niall's already leaning towards him.

“I've got it,” Niall says, and he's so, _so_ close, and before Harry knows what's happening, Niall's _licked_ him, lapped the bit of milkshake off of Harry's skin with his bubblegum-pink tongue.

“Well, I've gotta get back to work,” Niall smirks, quirking his brow. He ducks into his orange apron, shoves his cap back onto his head, and saunters off as Harry watches in disbelief. _The little shit._

____________________________________________________

The third time Harry sees Niall, it's a few days later, and he's not smiling.

It's the first tip-off that something's off, 'cause Niall's face is set in a deep frown, and then you know, there's also the fact that Niall's got a ball of rumpled dirty, grey something tucked into the fabric of his shirt.

“The fuck is that?” Zayn asks curiously, eyeing Niall. The bruise on the underside of his jaw is fading, and he's sore, but fidgety—needs to get in a good few hours of practice today in preparation for the tournament.

“'S a cat. Just an itty-bitty kitten. Fished 'im out of the sewer,” Niall offers, mouth in a tight line. Zayn gags and mutters, “No wonder it smells like shit,” but Niall ignores him. “I think I'm gonna go home and like. Give it a bath or something and feed it. Think I'm gonna keep it,” he says, perking up at the thought, and Harry relaxes a bit because Niall seems more like the Niall he's met the past two times.

“You try and keep everything,” Zayn protests, “and they all run away from you anyways, because you're a terror.”

“Do _not_ ,” Niall retorts childishly, and Harry can't help but snigger at how petulant he sounds. 

Niall frowns at him, brow furrowing. “You got something to say, Harry?”

“Nah,” Harry says quickly, and before he thinks it through, “you need help?”

Niall brightens considerably at the offer. “Actually yeah, man. That'd be great.” He sounds so utterly delighted that Harry's taken interest in him and his newfound kitten that something in Harry's heart swells.

“I live like...” Niall waves off in the distance, “pretty close to here. Z, you coming?”

Zayn looks reluctant—pokes a finger at the rink. “Um. Gotta practice, y'know.”

“Gotcha,” Niall says, cuddling the kitten closer to his chest. The animal lets out a weak whine in protest as Niall jostles it, its nails catching in the fabric of Niall's shirt. Niall yelps, a grin splitting his face, as he murmurs, “You feisty motherfucker—more trouble than you're worth,” but he sounds so sweet as he says it, and his eyes are sparkling.

Niall jumps on his skateboard, running dirty fingers through his matted hair, and tucking the cat under his arm like it's a textbook rather than something that's alive. “Come on, Hazza, you coming?”

“ _Hazza?_ ” Harry asks, but Niall just smiles at him with those crooked teeth and bright eyes, and Harry can't help but follow Niall's lead.

Niall snaps his feet expertly off his board, catching it with his free hand when they arrive at a courtyard. The kitten's green eyes are nearly bugging out of its head at this point, pupils huge, as it titters in fear.

“There, there,” Niall says, patting the kitten roughly on the head. “We're home, buddy. It's okay now.”

The cat doesn't look at all comforted.

Harry follows Niall up a spiral of steps to a building with quite a few circular windows. Niall thrusts the kitten at him, and Harry takes it hesitantly. The cat looks quite relieved to be out of Niall's grasp if the way it hooks onto Harry's shirt for dear life is any indication. Harry tries to pull it off, but the cat will hardly budge, so he traipses after Niall into his apartment with the kitten dangling precariously off his shirt.

Niall's apartment is messy and chaotic, small and tight and cramped. The main room holds a kitchen with a microwave that looks about a hundred years old, a counter covered in take-out containers and empty glass bottles of soda. There's no kitchen table or dining table, but rather an out-of-place looking couch, with squished cushions and ripped, ratty fabric. And, Harry thinks, Zayn was probably right, because lined all around the room are little knick-knacks, shells from the beach, pretty colored glass bottles—Niall keeps _everything._

“Come on, then,” Niall says impatiently, gesturing towards another room—which turns out to be his bedroom, and then attached to _that_ is his bathroom.

Harry finds himself with his knees on the tile facing a tub that is more brown than white with a tinge of dirt at the bottom, the cat still holding onto his shirt in sheer terror. Zayn was right—the raggedy cat honestly smells and looks like shit—with matted, filthy hair, and bent whiskers, and Harry has no doubt that Niall _actually_ fished it out of the sewer.

Niall strips off his shirt, and _so what_ if Harry spends an unecessary amount of time ogling the blonde's chest (nobody can prove it). Niall's chest is all wiry and lean muscle with dusky nipples, and Harry's momentarily distracted when Niall reaches forward to forcibly remove the cat from Harry's shirt.

“Come on, bud,” he says, sitting down in the tab. He turns on the water, and the cat goes absolutely _manic_ , screaming as it tries to crawl up Niall's arms to escape, eyes wide in horror and panic. Niall yells and then Harry's yelling as the cat scrabbles around on Niall's body, trying to get as far away from the water as it can. “Calm _down_ , you ungrateful fucker,” Niall's cursing, letting out a sharp whine when the kitten digs its nails into the pale flesh of his arm, drawing a long line of blood. “Shoulda left you to drown in the gutter.”

The water starts to fill the tub, and Harry helps pull the kitten off Niall and put it in the water. The cat seems to realize that it can't win this battle—two humans versus one scrawny feline (even though it puts up a valiant effort)—and surrenders as Harry and Niall try to scrub the dirt from its fur. 

“You alright?” Harry asks, eyeing the long, red scratches decorating Niall's arms.

Niall shrugs, popping open a prehistoric looking bottle of shampoo to rub into the cat's fur. The kitten meows weakly, but submits to the soap Niall scrubs into its hair. “I'll live.” He glances down at the cat, an appreciative expression creeping onto his face. “This cat's a real fighter, huh?”

“Fucking _monster_ , more like it,” Harry responds, because he's a bit confused as to how the pitiful ball of fur Niall showed up at the rink with morphed into the devil's spawn. 

Niall laughs at that, dexterous fingers continuing to scrub the clumped dirt off of the kitten, rubbing soapy bubbles into its skin. Wet, the kitten's all skin and bones—resembles somewhat of a drowning rat, and it's a surprising shade of orange. It'd be pretty cute, Harry thinks, if it weren't so skinny. And you know, if it wasn't Satan reincarnated.

“Grab me that towel, yeah?” Niall says, gesturing to the corner of the bathroom. Harry grabs the dishrag, wrinkling his nose at the dirt covering it.

“It had soap on it at some point, so it's okay,” Niall reasons, using it to scrub the cat dry. His denim shorts are soaked through with water at this point, and there's slight scratches all up his arms and chest, that Harry's finding wildly distracting.

“Here you go, buddy.” Niall sets the considerably cleaner (if not drier) cat on the bathroom floor. The cat yowls angrily, padding on soft paws away from him, tail twitching indignantly.

“Well then,” Niall says, spring up to wipe his hands on his shorts—it doesn't do much to dry them—“thanks.”

“No problem, brah. Um... might want to get some band-aids so you're not like... bleeding everywhere. And maybe cut the cat's nails,” Harry replies, following Niall out into his bedroom.

“No!” Niall says automatically. “That's like... just _wrong,_ man. He's a free, wild animal—let him roam and play, and like. If I get used as a scratching post every once in awhile, well, so be it.”

He eyes the kitten fondly, which is now shaking its paws out as it walks around Niall's bedroom. In Niall's bedroom, there's a mattress on the floor—just a mattress with a few crumpled sheets and a thin blanket, with a hoodie balled up Harry figures Niall uses as a pillow, and a guitar propped up against the wall (which explains why Niall's hands are so calloused), and, “Shit, man, is that weed?”

Lined all around the periphery of Niall's bedroom are small plastic bags full of weed. Harry eyes it all incredulously, before turning back to gape at Niall.

Niall, for his part, just laughs. “I have to pay rent somehow, y'know? Can't just work making milkshakes—especially since I'm shit at it.”

He has a point.

There's a beat and then, “So, you wanna smoke?”

“Sure,” Harry says, because he likes getting high and there's certainly no shortage of pot and like, Niall is a cool guy, so why not?

Niall's eyes crinkle up into small, crescent moons like he's thrilled at Harry's answer. He reaches over to grab one of the plastic bags and shakes it out, and glances over at the kitten which is now doing a thorough job cleaning its ass with its tongue.

Niall sits down on his bed—well mattress—on the floor and pats it, beckoning to Harry. Harry sits down next to him, cross-legged the way Niall is, and Niall reaches under his hoodie to pull out a lighter. He takes a joint out of the plastic baggie and expertly lights it.

Niall smirks at him, takes a deep drag from the joint, then passes it to Harry. Harry takes a hit, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and the high work its way through him, coating his insides as he closes his eyes in contentment. When he opens them again, Niall's watching him carefully, like he's contemplating something.

“Wanna shotgun?” Niall asks softly, and when Harry breathes, “Okay,” he smiles. 

Niall takes another hit, and cups his fingers around Harry's chin, and Harry can feel the callouses on his palms which he knows is from playing guitar and skating. Niall's hands smell like blacktop and beach and boy, and Harry's strangely comforted by the scent, feels safe.

Niall cocks his head slightly, blue eyes already dark and glazed. He presses his lips to Harry's and exhales. Harry watches the tiny furls of smoke curlicue out through his parted lips, white moving silkily through the gap between them. He grips at Niall's neck, pulling him in closer, feels Niall's bare chest against him. He can see the dark line of Niall's eyelashes, and then closes his eyes to inhale, letting the smoke drift into his lungs and move through his body, sighing in contentment.

Niall smirks at him, breaking their lips apart as he draws another drag from the joint, and then shotguns it into Harry's mouth. Everything around him is amplified now—he catches the kitten still licking itself dry from the corner of his eye, he can feel the way Niall's fingers send waves through his skin when they graze his arm slightly, the way every touch is electrifying. His mind is simultaneously full and empty, like the top of his head is open—he's floating, head taken off to the sky, while the world below him is filling the vacuum it left behind. And he—well Niall too—are floating in an ocean, and he feels weightless and light. And yeah, Harry's been high before, loads of times, really, but something about this is _different,_ the way Niall's lips feel against his, the way everything is just so fucking _right,_ and he just wants to lie back and bask in it.

There's an indignant meow, and Harry glances down amusedly to see the kitten perched on the mattress, eyes wide. It flicks its tail angrily and bats at Harry's arm and Harry's wondering if it's possible for cats to have attitude, because this one probably does.

“The fuck do _you_ want?” Harry asks the cat seriously, and Niall dissolves into giggles.

“Maybe he wants to try it out,” Niall says, smoke curling from his lips. He's laughing when Harry reaches out, eyes and fingers and mind working sluggishly as he plucks the joint from Niall's fingers and brings it to his mouth. Not yet inhaling, just feeling the press of it against his lips.

He eyes the cat again as it reaches out and smacks an impatient paw against his arm, and yes. It's definitely attitude.

Harry considers it as it watches him, furry little head tilted, green eyes half closed, a soft rumbling purr of interest shaking its tiny chest. And Harry thinks it would be really selfish to not share with the litle guy. It's clear the fuzzball's had a rough day (what with being manhandled by Niall and all and then forced to _bathe_ ) and Harry knows from experience that nothing takes the edge off like a hit or two.

It's a stroke of brilliance when he takes a long drag from the joint, grabs the kitten by the back of its neck, and brings his lips close to exhale, watching the dregs of smoke leave him.

The cat's eyes widen almost comically, and then it's hissing, spitting angrily at him. A paw reaches out to scratch him, and then Harry's backing up as the kitten's back furrows in fury, slightly damp hair puffing and raising up so that it looks like some kind of mangled orange porcupine, which would be more intimidating if a) the kitten weren't so small, and b) Harry weren't so high.

“You _fucker,_ ” Harry moans, reaching up to feel the slightly raised, puffy skin under his eye. The cat glowers at him triumphantly from where it's retreated to the corner of Niall's bedroom, taking refuge next to the battered-looking guitar.

Thankfully the scratch isn't bleeding, but Harry flips the cat off anyways, mumbling, “That's what happens when you are nice to a _pussy,_ ” and Niall claps his hands together and giggles as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard which makes Harry's chest swell in a way that's pleasant and probably not just due to weed.

“I'm _hungry,_ ” Niall says suddenly, and Harry has to agree. He can't remember the last time he ate—it might have been when he wolfed down a bowl of cereal and some cold pizza at home—but he's definitely feeling the hunger now.

“I want Cheetos,” Niall continues, voice sounding almost pitiful, and Harry laughs at that. “Whaz so funny, Haz?” Niall asks, fixing those bright blue, _blue_ eyes on Harry, “I _really_ want Cheetos. The puffy kind. Get me Cheetos. Not the crunchy kid—fuck _that_ shit—I want the really fat, big ones.”

“You talking about food or dick?” Harry asks, and Niall replies with “fuck you,” and Harry thinks this is the best he's felt in awhile.

“Just eat the devil cat.” Harry points at the disgruntled kitten which has thankfully returned to its normal size now. “Looks enough like a Cheeto.”

Niall looks at him like he's absolutely _brilliant,_ and barks, “Cheeto! Cheeto, come here.”

The cat stays put, most likely pondering why it is unfortunate enough to owe two long-haired imbeciles its life. 

“ _Cheeto_!” Niall whines, but the newly christened Cheeto adamantly refuses to budge, and Niall's not getting up, so Niall sighs, stretching out his body and lying his head down on Harry's chest. He takes another hit from the joint, and breathes upwards into Harry's mouth once more, and before he knows it, Harry's fingers are curling into the thick hair on Niall's scalp. He lets Niall exhale into his mouth, and then surges downwards, gluing their lips together in a deep kiss.

Niall whines, and Harry swallows the sound, groaning as Niall slips his tongue into his mouth, leaning forward and pushing Niall into the mattress. Their tongues slide together, and Niall tastes really fucking good like sea salt and boy, smells like the ocean. Harry's hands trail down Niall's bare, rippling chest, teasingly over Niall's nipples, tapering around the lean muscles of his back, and then finally down to grip his waist. He smirks as Niall deepens the kiss, lets himself drown in it because it's _good_ , so _fucking_ good. Harry's kissed people when he's high before— _loves_ it, really, but he's never felt like this before. It's never felt quite so raw and electrifying as it does with Niall, and he's reluctant when finally they break it off when Niall whimpers, and Harry really needs to breathe because his lungs might just explode.

“What.” Niall starts, but he's so high that his words are jumbled together, and Harry tries to ask if this is okay, tries to apologize, but then Niall's leaning forward for a kiss again and the world melts apart into hazy blurry hues around them.


End file.
